Evolution IV: The Reliability of Fate
by RatGrl
Summary: The crew of Moya risk their lives to save a young boy.


Evolution IV: The Reliability of Fate

By RatGrl (ratgrl127@ameritech.net)

Archive: This story is indeed my property and may be passed along and archived as long as my name goes right along with it. Just ask first, heh. 

Category: Drama

Rating: PG-13, I guess. 

Spoilers: None that I know of. 

Summary: The crew of Moya risk their lives to save a young boy. 

Disclaimer: Obviously the characters of Farscape do not belong to me and never will (awww!). They do, however, belong to the Jim Henson Company and I use them humbly for my personal entertainment within this little universe of mine. The characters of Seth and Captain Lundin are of my own creation. They are not to be used without my permission. 

Author's Note: Without counting the epilogue (which is hopefully coming soon, I promise!), this is the last and final part of the Evolution Series. However, there is a catch; I am thinking about writing more stories involving Seth and I would like feedback on whether or not I should pursue this issue. On another note, I would like to thank anyone who's emailed me with support involving the Evolution Series. Your kind words have forced me to finally finish this beast. Thank you. 

So let's rock!

In vivid detail, the memory resurfaced. Unwarranted and unwanted, the repulsive hunger rushed her throat in violent tides of constricted emotion and repressed thought. She bit back, hard, to keep these visions at bay. But they danced on, mercilessly, their bright bodies burning hellishly in the dark recesses of her past. The light testing her, teasing her, sinking its deep, claustrophobic claws into her already raw skin. 

She had been young then. Though that had never mattered before. But now, as life shifted irritably against her damp chest, the tender flesh of her youth begged to be recognized, if not honored, for what it was; stolen, trashed, and destroyed at the bloody hands of careless Fate. 

Cycles later, she would understand the significance of her visit. Cycles later, she would lay awake wondering, waiting, breathing short under the ties of their unspoken connection, the vulnerability weeping out of her stiff, cold, tender hands. And there and only there would she let herself re-live the microts of that one, single encounter that had profoundly bestowed upon her the strength to survive each unforgiving mission of childhood. 

She had silver eyes. Silver beams of broken, yet exhaustively radiant, light. And when she spoke, they glittered with the gleam of unshed tears. 

The irony never failed to escape Aeryn; the warrior, her dark, flowing hair tied meticulously back, her pale skin decorated with various merits of her valor, fighting back the innocence and warmth of moving tears. Even now, crouching low within the protection of Moya's air ducts, she held the unbelievable proof close to her heart, for fear one day it would fade from her memory and she would lose something she had never quite had a hold of in the first place. 

Silver eyes. Deep, beautiful, silver eyes.

She touched Aeryn's face, lightly, as if in denial of the divine sight before her. Had she created this? She could only kneel awe-struck beside Aeryn's bunk, her eyes piercing, her hand shaking with anticipation, praying that maybe life was different and they were safe together.

"Aeryn."

The word died beautifully on her lips. And though Aeryn should have been wary that the stranger not only knew her name, but spoke it with such an aching familiarity, she wasn't. Only deeply moved that she had the capacity to honor her name with such sincere emotion flowing from her husky voice.

And for the first, and last, time within the course of Aeryn's life, she felt safe. Protected. Solid against the forces cutting deep into her tiny grasp; shielded from the cold hallways of her ship, the empty rooms of her Instructors, and the bloody battlefields of her childhood.

Safe.

Tightening her arms around the shivering ball of flesh pressed against her side, Aeryn fought against the growing ache eating through her chest. It was like a disease, chewing rabidly, spreading its warming juices throughout her body. She didn't mind so much; he pressed his face into her stomach, his pale arms encircling her waist, the flesh curled into tiny bumps splashed across his thin, meager arms. 

She closed her eyes and let the brilliant gaze of her mother burn on.

She had to save him. Needed to. And she would never let Fate take that simple truth away from her. 

A weary hand smeared across Crichton's face, smudging sweat and stress deeply into his pores, eventually drifting absently to his side. 

"It worked once, Zhaan. It can work again."

Zhaan minded him with sad, concerned eyes. "But last time Aeryn was backing you up and even then— "

Crichton inhaled sharply, his eyes intensely focused. "We don't have that option now, do we?" he snapped. 

Taken aback, Zhaan looked down at the floor in resignation. 

"Their lives are in your hands, Crichton," D'Argo said quietly, his face passive, yet his body held in rigid unease. 

"I know."

"He wants to kill me."

Startled, Aeryn looked down at Seth, her shirt wound tightly in his sweaty fist. She had assumed, after the previous weeken of battery and abuse, that the boy had been sleeping off the weakness that had ambushed every fiber of his small body, but was surprised by the sudden assertion of his soft voice.

"Who?"

"The man who wants to board the ship. The one we're hiding from."

So he had a Peacekeeper's cool detachment from death. 

Somehow, that failed to reassure her.

"I won't let that happen," Aeryn whispered, her hand resting on the softness of his cheek. "I promise."

The blood froze underneath the surface of Crichton's sweaty palms, icy crystals cracking painfully against the saturated flesh. Instinctively, he closed his eyes in quiet thought and fingered the object hanging loosely around his neck; _Dad, hope this lucky charm of yours still works. _ The concept of his storage supply of luck finally diminishing seemed oddly funny to him. He licked his lips, breathed in, and half-smirked into the projector directly in front of him.

"Almost here, Pilot?"

"Yes, Commander Crichton."

Nodding, he set his face into a plane of hard, distinct lines, the corners of his mouth cutting severely across his smooth face. 

He was ready.

"Say a prayer for me, willya Zhaan? And one for Aeryn and the boy, too."

"Certainly."

The shots came first. Then the onslaught of infuriatingly uncontrollable variables as hissing blasts of blazing-hot energy ripped past Crichton's body and tore carelessly into Moya's tender walls. Fate laughed menacingly, loud and shrewd, the high-pitched scream curling Crichton's hands into thrashed fists. A frenzied howl electrified the air; Lundin charged, feral and unforgiving, his guards securing every known weakness, his pulse rifle knocking Crichton pitifully to the floor.

He fell, hard, partly out of pain, mostly out of defeat. 

He hoped Aeryn had enough sense to pick a decent hiding place. 

"I am commander of this vessel now, Captain," Lundin hissed icily, rough hands gripping Crichton's jacket, dragging him onto his knees. Grunting, Crichton spat out a strangled curse. The pulse rifle promptly thrust itself fiercely underneath his chin. 

Lundin tangled his fingers through Crichton's hair, yanking his head back sharply. 

"Now tell me where he is."

"I don't know who you're talking about, Captain— " The fake Peacekeeper accent bled through his clenched teeth, the clipped edge of uncontrollable anger slicing through each word. 

"You lie!" Crichton doubled-over in pain as the rifle dove swiftly into his stomach. "Now tell me where he is!"

He squeezed his eyes shut in pain, the idea shaking his skull violently. A last option, yes, but he was already out of options. Another blow bore mightily into his side. And another. Praying for consciousness, Crichton leaned his shoulder into the floor, clicking the comm into life. 

"Where is he, Captain?" Lundin growled fiercely. "Tell me where he is."

"Maintenance Bay 1," Crichton wheezed. "He's in Maintenance Bay 1."

"What in the hezmana is he doing!?" D'Argo bellowed. "What a weak, pathetic—"

Zhaan held up a hand to silence the enraged Luxan. "Go. I will tell Pilot to notify Aeryn on a private channel."

Their eyes locked and the realization lit upon D'Argo's face. He nodded. "To stay out of Maintenance Bay 1."

Zhaan smiled. "He is not so pathetic after all."

"And neither am I," D'Argo said with a conspiratorial rumble, unsheathing the massive Qualta Blade strapped to his back despite Crichton's warnings that it would invalidate their charade. 

"Go, before the Peacekeepers get there."

"Gladly."

A perverse grin splintered across Lundin's scarred features. 

"He is close." He gestured wildly to the two guards trailing him, quickening his frenzied pace. "This way!"

Lundin's hands stiffened brutally, feeling the blood wash itself unreservedly clean. Heard it pound against the skin of his enemy like the vicious thudding of thunder as it tears open the sky. Saw it drip erotically from his hands, cleansing the ever-present marks of contamination. 

He would soon be a free man.

He could feel it.

"We have to move further away, Seth."

The boy stared at her solemnly, his soulful eyes dark and ominous. Raising himself to his knees so that his face was close to touching hers, he placed a tiny hand on her shoulder, as if trying to reassure her of their unseen Fate. For a microt, Aeryn could have sworn he was much older than his handful of precious cycles. 

"You know, I'll forgive you if we die."

"We won't die. You won't die. I won't let you." Her voice broke but still held strong. 

"Sometimes," he whispered. "It isn't your choice."

D'Argo's boots hammered fiercely against the floor, a steady rhythm drowning out latent beasts as they lunged forward in leaps of sporadic strength, threatening to seize him at every turn. Faster, still, he ran, a low, painful growl boiling intensely within, pushing him forward, feeding off the rage of eight cycles of imprisonment and the injustices referred to affectionately as Life. 

There were good days. Then there were bad days. 

A hand unconsciously touched his chest where, buried deep within his flesh (which he found oddly fitting) was the holo of his wife and son. Smiling, at him, a constant memory beating against his ribcage as he ran faster through the corridors leading to Maintenance Bay 1. 

He didn't need to look at the holo to remember their faces.

His breath came in ragged gasps, punctured by thick, resonating grunts that broke from his massive chest. Chemicals raced through his body and his heart beat faster; bright red gels scratching every nerve ending in his wild body. 

There were good days. And then there were bad days. 

He was hoping this was one of the good days.

Crichton scowled, the guard's pulse rifle inches from his head, swaying viciously in a horribly one-sided, twisted game. He casually scratched his chin in feigned indifference, training his seething glower on the Peacekeeper guard; the hairs on the back of his neck prickled up, sweat dripping down his back and pooling at the base of his spine. 

"Why is your captain so intent on finding some boy?" he sighed, the fake accent sliding malignantly over each word.

"He has been looking for him for some time now."

"Yes, but why?" Curiosity got the better of him and he stared blatantly into the eyes of the Peacekeeper soldier. 

The guard turned an icy glare on him. "For a promotion, of course."

Crichton fought the urge to retch.

"What's going on, Zhaan?" Chiana asked, her voice tight and strained, searching the Delvian's grave face, which was partially blocked by the obstructing bars. "Where's Crichton and D'Argo? Are they okay?"

Zhaan quickly opened both cells, handing Chiana a pulse rifle. "You may need this."

Turning to leave, Chiana grabbed her sleeve. "What's going on? Where are you going?"

"We, my dear, are going to save Crichton."

Seth slumped pathetically against the wall of the air duct, fatigue forcing his bloodshot eyes shut, his breath coughing out in choppy, desperate pants. Thin arms weakly wrapped around himself protectively, his head falling limply onto his heaving chest. Aeryn pressed a hand against his forehead, coming away completely drenched in cold sweat. 

"Seth, what's wrong?" Aeryn asked, alarm creeping subtly into her voice. "What's wrong?"

With a furious swipe across his face, he crumpled, the tears flowing soundlessly down his pitiful face. 

"I just want to be safe," he choked out, the words chopped by reluctant sobs. His blue eyes shone startlingly clear, pleading helplessly. 

Aeryn bent her head in overwhelming sadness. "Yes, I know. I feel the same way."

"This is a nice ship you've got here, Captain," the guard mused, licking his lips lustfully. He paced towards one of Moya's walls, inspecting it for a few microts, then paced back to where Crichton was sitting, his hands tied behind him.

"Thank you."

He pressed the pulse rifle against Crichton's chest, smiling. "I bet my captain wouldn't mind flying back home in one of these."

"A Leviathan is hardly a luxury transport," Crichton stated flatly, swallowing hard. "Your ship is much more well-equipped than this defenseless brute."

The guard grunted hoarsely. "Would be nice, though, wouldn't it?" He smiled again, the pulse rifle dragging up the center of Crichton's chest and resting right above his windpipe. 

An explosion roared through the air, heat rippling over Crichton's shoulders and face. The soldier's eyes bulged in sputtering, choked shock. 

"Miss me, Crichton?" Chiana leered, standing over the body of the fallen guard. Zhaan looked at the solider nervously, her gun gripped tightly in her hands. 

"Let me tell ya, Pip, I've never been so glad to see you in my entire life."

Lundin thundered into Maintenance Bay 1, his lips doused in thirsty bloodlust. Delirious with primitive, arrant rage, the savage bellow burst from his mouth in a spray of maddened discourse: "He is here!" he shouted, licking his lips frantically. "He is here, I feel it!"

He was free and the power was intoxicating. 

The labor was finally over and he was free.

He rubbed his palms together, the erotic sensation overwhelming as it radiated to his arms and legs, through his chest and neck, and burst from his shadowed eyes.

The boy was his. 

The guards skidded to a halt behind him.

"What the frell—" one half-whispered, stumbling backwards, away from the pulses of light screaming directly towards his chest. The other aimed his rifle at the massive Luxan, D'Argo easily finishing him off with a well-aimed shot.

Lundin's grin snapped into an angry snarl. He ran, pounding his fist into the door-pad, shutting the door with a swift hiss, ripping the wires free with a frantic jerk.

Pulling out the pistol strapped to his waist, he bit his lip until he tasted the saltiness of blood. 

He would find the boy on his own. 

There are moments in life, some that last eternity, some barely surviving a breath before winking out into oblivion, that, no matter how long they last, have the unimaginable ability to not only grip the ever-enduring spirit by the throat, but to hold on to it painfully, to master it, to break it down and pin it to its knees while it begs for the forgiveness it so desperately searches for. And though Aeryn had never before understood Fate, it now hit her sharply, profoundly, with a bloodied fist as she broke open the grate, roaring, jumping on top of the man directly below her. 

Impulse, rather than clear thought, ruled over her now. And perhaps that was what had always ruled in battle; raw emotion, strict chance, and the keen and ever-present instinct of survival. 

In the back of her mind she had accepted that she may fail and the boy may die; but in the heat of the moment, her fists blindly connecting with the captain's arm, knocking the pistol out of his hand, she couldn't accept nor acknowledge anything other than victory. The thought spurred her on; a protectiveness she had never known welled inside her and she knew she would willingly become a martyr just to save a small boy.

A fierce kick connected with his side and the captain bellowed hoarsely. A quick blow to his abdomen. Unaffected, he lunged, tackling her knees, shoving her harshly into the wall. She grunted, her knee connecting with his nose; the crack pulsated through her, empowering her, the blood dripping through her pants. 

And somewhere within the fury she felt, rather than heard, Seth's cry. Instinct told her that she should be vigilantly attentive to the sudden clairvoyance. And though the captain's gun had been scattered down the corridor, she had never seen the blunt baton swinging through the air in a frenzied rage, but felt as it connected cleanly with her skull.

Somewhere unseen a grim smile crept onto her face, the pungent remembrance of childhood beatings cutting swiftly through her psyche. 

Footsteps reverberated along the corridor. The captain ran, his face twisted into a portrait of fear and anguished hatred. Crichton's voice, barely audible, cut through the haze enveloping her. She felt his hands gently scoop her up into his arms, cradling her head, oblivious to the blood warming his hands.

"Seth— " she breathed, gripping onto Crichton's shirt. D'Argo carefully lifted the frightened boy from the air duct and held him against his strong chest. 

"Seth. Safe—" She needed him to know, needed him to understand, needed him to protect Seth the way she had so vainly tried. 

She gritted her teeth, tears mixing with the blood, sweat, and dirt smearing her face. 

Crichton was running now, alongside Zhaan, rushing her strained, battered body to the medlab. 

"I only wanted him to be safe," she whispered. "I only wanted him to be safe."

Closing her eyes, she prepared herself for her inevitable Fate.


End file.
